


i feel we're facing a problem

by dykerey



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, M/M, Movie Theatre, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Set in the 90s, content warning for richie as usual, if naruto was a thing at this point in time richie would be into it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 13:46:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15559035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dykerey/pseuds/dykerey
Summary: A movement from the corner of his vision catches his eye, and he turns his head slightly to lock eyes with his part-time co-worker, part-time bane of his existence: Richie Tozier.





	i feel we're facing a problem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dilfanakin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilfanakin/gifts).



> this was originally gonna be longer but i lost inspo and just decided to finish it here so im sorry if its rushed! i havent thought about it in a fat second bc ive been so into naruto LOL
> 
> find me on tumblr @girlfriendsakura and twitter @sakuralovebot
> 
> titles from lovefool by the cardigans

Eddie sighs and checks his schedule again. Two more theatres to clean, and then he can clock out and wait for his mom to pick him up, where he'll surely get an earful about how working at a movie theatre is "disgusting," "unsanitary," and, Eddie's favorite, "just not for you, Eddie-Bear."

  
  
_ Yeah, well, fuck you, Mom _ , he thinks, pushing the usher cart with more force than necessary, sending it hurtling across the tiled lobby floor. Cleaning theatres is disgusting, yes, and sometimes dragging a damp, dirt-stained cloth through a soda stain on a cushy leather seat makes his skin crawl and activates his gag reflex, but at the end of the day, it's a job, and he's getting paid for it, and he gets to defy his mom, even if it's just for 10 hours a week. In his mind, it all evens out.

  
  
A movement from the corner of his vision catches his eye, and he turns his head slightly to lock eyes with his part-time co-worker, part-time bane of his existence: Richie Tozier. 

  
  
Thankfully, it's a Wednesday, so the lobby is devoid of customers. And, even more thankfully, no one's around to hear Richie's loud, obnoxious, "Hey, sweet cheeks!" This greeting is punctuated with grating laugh that tapers off into giggles at the look on Eddie's face. 

  
  
"Fuck off, Richie," he calls back, giving the usher cart such a violent shove that it goes flying. Eddie thinks Richie's a permanent fixture at the theatre; no matter what kind of shit the bespectacled boy pulls, he, for some ungodly reason, towers behind the concession counter every Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday, either charming customers with his wit and wide smile or disgusting them with his loud, vulgar remarks. And even though Eddie's only worked with him for a little over a month, and seen him around town for a little while more than that, Richie's latched onto him like a fucking parasite and won't let go. 

  
  
The only problem is that Eddie doesn't hate that walking plague nearly as much as he should. He even fucking finds him  _ endearing _ sometimes, and he discovers himself thinking about Richie's long legs and lanky arms more often than not. Richie, objectively, is hot, so it's a shame that he opens his big, fat mouth and ruins it all. 

  
  
Eddie focuses his rage onto sweeping up the last crumbs of popcorn in Auditorium 7, making sure to give the groom that last extra push so it collects even the smallest bits.

  
  
The walkie on the usher cart beeps, and Eddie spares it a glance before returning to the task at hand. If he can't get up these few pieces of popcorn, he'll think about it until Friday, when he'll return to the theatre and have to clean up much bigger messes.

  
  
The walkie beeps again. "What the fuck," Eddie mutters, not as quietly as he probably should. He marches over to the cart, holds the button down, and says, "Stop messing around on the walkie. These are expensive, and you'll have to pay if you break it."

  
  
"Oh, but Eds, baby, how else am I supposed to talk to you if you're so far away from me?" Richie croons through the handheld machine. "Besides," he adds, "your mother would just pay for it. She adores me." 

  
  
"You've never even met my mother, jackass," Eddie fires back, and he hates how fluttery his stomach gets at the sound of Richie's returning laughter. 

  
  
"Can you two stop flirting and get back to work?" A different voice cuts in, one Eddie's not nearly as familiar with. "It's 10:30, we only have a half hour. You guys can flirt off the clock, thanks." 

  
  
"Aw, Stan, it's okay that you're jealous. There's enough of me to go around." Eddie can hear Richie's smarmy smile and exaggerated wink, even through the crackle of the walkie talkie.

 

  
"I can't hear you, Richie, I think your singing made me deaf a long time ago." 

  
  
"Well, Stan, if you're deaf, then you can't hear my flirting with Eddie. Stop complaining and get back to work," Richie says cheerfully, and Eddie can imagine the bright, mocking grin planted on his face. And then Eddie imagines himself knocking that bright, mocking grin off Richie's face because they're not fucking flirting.

 

Well. Maybe a little.

  
  
"That's funny coming from you," Stan shoots back just as Eddie says, "it's not flirting, asshole, it's arguing. There's a difference, and, besides, I hate you."

  
  
"Eddie, Eds, Edster," Richie responds, clicking his teeth. "Hasn't anyone ever told you that the closest emotion to hate is love?"

  
  
"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Eddie starts to say, but he's cut off by a long, drawn out inhale crackling through the walkie. Immediately, chills run down his spine, and he looks over his shoulder to make sure no one's in the theatre with him. The empty seats almost make the scene spookier, so he sets the walkie back on the cart and focuses his energy on scrubbing the seats until they're spotless.

  
  
Without a doubt, that inhale had been the creepy manager, Mr. Wise. Eddie's only seen him once in his time here at the theatre, but he's decided that he doesn't want to see him ever again. The man's a sickly shade of white, almost like spoilt milk, and his hair a vibrant red. Eddie had felt so uncomfortable during his interview he almost didn't take the job. All Mr. Wise had done was stare at him uncomfortably for a good thirty minutes and then ask him some very personal questions.

 

  
Eddie's glad that he took the job, though. It gives him a decent paycheck every two weeks, and a chance to get out of the house too. It's an added bonus that he can go to the movies for free with a guest of his choice.

  
  
Eddie finishes cleaning the last seat in the theatre, then heads out to clean the last one of the night. He passes concessions on the way, and even though Richie's helping a customer, the moron still takes the time to wave his gangly arm back and forth and yell out a "Heya, Eds!"

  
  
Eddie fights back a blush  _ and _ the urge to flip Richie off. One more theatre, and he can go home and sleep and relax. Well, as much as he can relax with his mother breathing over him, watching his every move. Now that he thinks about it, he would much rather stay at the theatre with Richie and Stan and Mr. Wise than go home and deal with his mother.

  
  
The last theatre had had next to no one in it, so Eddie breezes through cleaning it and then stashes the usher cart back where it belongs. Once his card swipes through the machine and he's all clocked out, he grabs his stuff from the break room and exits the theatre, plopping himself down on the corner of the sidewalk to wait. 

  
  
Ten minutes have passed when he hears a telltale laugh, and he whips his head around to spot Richie exiting through the doors.

  
  
"Waiting for your mom, Eds?" Richie asks, and, much to Eddie's dismay, he takes a seat next to him.

  
  
Eddie responds with a simple "yeah" and leaves it at that.

  
  
"It's okay, I'm waiting for her too. We have an arrangement; she picks me up from work, I fuck her in the car. It works out well."

  
  
Eddie smacks Richie's arm, hard enough to sting but not enough to leave a mark. He figures it's what Richie deserves. "That's fucking disgusting, dude.  _ You're _ fucking disgusting."

  
  
"Part of my charm," Richie grins, and even though Eddie rolls his eyes, the small, traitorous part of his brain agrees.

  
  
Richie continues. "Anyways, I had an idea. You and I both go to Derry High, right? We should sit together at lunch. I've heard that you should always try to befriend your future stepson."

  
  
"Can you shut the fuck up about my mom? And yeah, I do, but my friend Bill and I spend lunch in the library, and I don't think he's ever met you.” Eddie says in response, his brain scrambling for another reason for Richie to  _ not  _ sit with him at lunch. The two days he sees him here are more than enough, and Eddie thinks that if he and Richie hang out more often, the fluttery feeling in his stomach will transform into something a little more serious.

 

“Bill Denbrough?” Richie asks, and, as soon as he sees Eddie’s nod, goes, “I fuckin’ love that dude! He was my partner in chem last year. We were pretty cool.” 

 

It's funny that Richie says that, because even though Bill never said who exactly was his chem partner last year, Eddie has a distinct memory of Bill storming into the library one day, his eyebrows singed and steaming. Eddie had decided not to press the subject then, but knowing Richie now, he has no doubt that Richie had been the mastermind behind that particular event.

 

“Well, I'll ask him, I guess, but I'm not really sure if I wanna see any more of you than I have to.” Eddie says, and Richie’s hands fly to his chest, clutching the space above his heart.

 

“That was a bullet, Eddie. Right through my heart. You wound me. No, you kill me. You're a murderer now. I've been killed in cold blood. How does it feel, monster?” Richie cries, falling backwards. Eddie stifles a laugh.

 

“Feels pretty good, if I'm being completely honest. Plus, I wanna keep our relationship strictly professional. Did you know that it's bad luck to hang out with your co-workers outside of work?”

 

“Who the fuck came up with that?” Richie demands, and Eddie raises an eyebrow.

 

“I did, just now. It was mostly an excuse because I don't want to be associated with you outside of work.”

 

Richie falls completely flat on the ground, yelling, “It’s a goddamned double murder! Where's the crime scene tape, this man should be locked up! Officer! Officer! Yes, this man right here!”

 

Eddie laughs, and the conversation lulls into a comfortable silence. Which, really, with Richie, is rare, and Eddie knows he should be taking advantage of this. So he does; he just sits and soaks it in, a light breeze wafting past both his and Richie’s faces. He sneaks a glance at Richie. For all Eddie bitches about the other boy and his dumb face, Richie’s actually not that bad looking. His round, coke-bottle glasses hide his proud nose, and they cover up a few of the freckles on his cheeks, but they can’t possibly disguise Richie’s strong jawline and the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat when he laughs.

 

Eddie decides right then and there that he’s fucked. One prolonged glance at Richie and suddenly he’s a poet, which doesn’t bode well for his sanity. He and Richie have been working Wednesdays together for weeks now, but Richie’s antics had put Eddie off of the other boy for a while. Now that he’s actually interacted with him, Eddie’s traitor brain has made the executive decision that Hey, We Actually  _ Like  _ Richie, Even If It’s Just A Little Bit. 

 

Eddie almost wants to tell himself, “thanks, I hate it,” but he refrains because he was raised better.

 

He’s shocked out of his stupor by the sounding of a loud and distinctive horn. He resists the urge to sigh and stands up, offering Richie a hand. Richie accepts with a smile, and Eddie forces down the single, lone butterfly struggling its way up his stomach.

 

“See you tomorrow, Eds? Me, you, table, and one sexy, sexy lunch date?” Richie asks, waggling his eyebrows.

 

“Since you put it like that, no,” Eddie snarks back, but his smile betrays him. Richie’s grin only widens. 

 

“I’ll see you at eleven AM sharp, cutie. Be there or be square!” Richie winks, giving him a two-fingered salute. Eddie salutes back, snorting as he does.

 

He clambers in the car, ignoring his mom’s constant stream of chatter. He answers her questions with offhanded responses, “yes”s and “hmm”s and “I see”s to keep her happy and occupied.

 

Later on, after he’s home and showered and laying in his bed, his mind drifts to a boy with tangled, shaggy black hair, the worst fashion sense known to man, grimy coke-bottle glasses, and jokes that would make even the raunchiest comedian blush.

 

Eddie smiles, feeling something a little like hope.


End file.
